Page 87 of Razors & Ruin

“You know, it’s quite the extravagance, a gold razor,” I say, turning it in the light. “Silver is ostentatious enough as it is. Wherever did you get it?”

“As a matter of fact, I had it made specially.”

She shuffles closer and studies my face as I examine my new blade. “Took a lot of work to melt down the raw materials into a more acceptable form, but once the idea came to me…”

“You used the Beadle’s gold teeth?” I ask, suddenly understanding.

“I used a lot of gold teeth beside his. There was a whole pail of them downstairs.”

“That’s sickeningly clever. I love the way your nasty little mind works, Nellie. So you took a brick of tooth gold to an artisan, and they whipped up this wee beauty?”

She nods, exhilarated by my appreciation. “Correct. Paid through the nose, but that’s to be expected for a one-off piece.”

“You’re a one-off piece,” I say.

I push her onto her back and bite her collarbone hard, making her yelp. “Did you find the extra treat behind the locket photo?”

“I did. It stinks; do I have to keep it there?”

She sighs as my hands roam over her body, and I use the razor to slice her dress buttons. Her rosy nipples harden beneath the tip of my tongue, and she arches her back.

“Yes, you do,” I murmur. “If they come for us and I’m not here, you’ll know what to do, and so will I.”

My police mugshot, glaring out of the tiny locket, hides a grim secret: a cyanide capsule. I have one, too, hidden in my wallet, and I won’t leave home without it.

If we are to be undone, we’ll do it ourselves, but not until we’re cornered.

“Swear to me,” I say, running my tongue down her smooth belly until it crests her mound. “Swear you won’t give me up. Promise, if it all falls apart, that you’ll come with me to Hell.”

I lap her clit, a fleeting touch, and she moans. “Say it, Nellie,” I whisper against her slick folds. “There is no life without me and no death either. Wherever I go, you’re going too. Say it.”

“Of course, love,” she sighs. “Of course.”

I dig in then, devouring her pussy, her slutty cries ringing off the walls. She winds her hands through my hair, her body surging against my mouth.

My new razor is slimmer than the others, with an edge that could split a diamond; it shimmers as it unfolds in my hand. I press it to Nellie’s opening, and she freezes, terrified I’ll slice her sensitive flesh.

Instead, I stroke it over her pussy lips, flexing the tendons in my hand, making the tiniest nicks and cuts, the thumb of my other hand working her swollen button.

“It hurts,” she says, the words shuddering from her chest, “but it’s so good.”

The blood is minimal—the blade is so keen that the cuts are more like grazes—but they come up beautifully, little red lines crisscrossing her plump slit.

My cock throbs, and I free it so I can rub the juicy head over the fresh slashes that paint my love’s cunt like a fresco.

“Hold that pussy open so I can fuck it,” I say. “Nice and wide now, so it hurts you right, that’s my good slut.”

She does what I ask, and I toss the razor aside, overcome by the need to be inside her.

I sink into her in one thrust. The friction pulls at the tiny cuts, searing her cunt with every stroke, but still, I rub her clit, blood lubricating it as I bottom out deep inside.

“You’re so hot,” she says, throwing her head back in surrender. “Do it to me. Make me bleed for you.”

Her words make my balls tighten. So rare, this wife of mine. Rare enough to bleed, as any good chef would say, and bleed she does.

Always, every day, forme.

I slap her cheek so she’ll give me her fuck-hungry eyes. She’s coming; I know it from the precise dilation of her pupils, the flush in her chest, her clutching, tortured channel.

---